we had an instant history,
some supernatural chemistry.
-----

A sad minority of the global population should know what I'm talking about.

I'm in love with his middle name.

It sounds so Jane Austen-esque (and yes, I'll admit, it DOES sound Edward Cullenesque as well), and I love his first name as well.
He sounds like a character out of the pages of a beautiful gilded, coffee-table edition book.

(And yes, I do still keep that dress;
Blue poison ivy and mayflowers, how could I forget?)

I was jealous of his crystal chandelier drawings. They turned out lovely, far beyond what an eight year old should have the right to draw... and mine looked coarse and misshapen and seven year oldesque, just as it should, beside his exquisite pencilling ins.

And then we went outside, leaving our parents to exchange small talk in the ballroom and your little sister to play with her Yellow Tractor picturebook, and we peered into the Italian restaurant in the corner and I remember the childish excitement of those deep red and green lights set in a dark room, and the polysterene bean stuffing in my plush pony shifting as I turned to exchange smiles with you.

"Do you know how to dance?"
You, confident as always, with the strange unsettling charisma so far beyond your years.

And me; startled, big little-girl eyes.
"No."

"Well then. I'll teach you."

And teach me you did, (and it sounds like a fairytale now; some scene out of a teenage movie!) and although we were innocent then, you were so wise, and how the guests must have stared at us then- a young prince and an equally tiny Cinderella!

"...Would you like to dance in front of my father?"

Me, shying away instantly, gathering up little-girl skirts with little-girl hands. "No, no."

"It's okay. You don't have to be afraid."

...But oh, I was, and I still remember how gently you pleaded with me to dance in front of your daddy!

-and now eight years have passed (?), and I'd almost forgotten about you, until one day your name resurfaced, and everything comes flooding back to me again; as bittersweet as yesterday, roses pressed between the pages of an old and lovely book.

I hope you never read this.
I hope you do.

I hope we'll meet again, someday. It isn't impossible, after all-

- and we're almost grown-up now, teenagers; if I passed you on the street I doubt I'd know you,

and you'd probably pass right by me as well.

...But hey.
Thanks for teaching me to believe in magic, and letting me be Cinderella for a night...even if I WAS just a little girl back then, with a brown plush pony and a blue poison ivy dress and with the still shining light that all little children have.

I still remember.